


the death of redbeard;

by johnlockaf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Kidlock, Other, Sad Ending, Teencroft, pet death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 19:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6718771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnlockaf/pseuds/johnlockaf





	the death of redbeard;

It was almost that time of day where Sherlock would arrive home. So full of joy. So full of life. He had always finished his homework at school. Leaving more time for him to play. His real friends were at home, and Mycroft realised that.

 

But today, Mycroft knew was going to crush Sherlock.

 

+++

 

Late in the morning, dangerously near to the afternoon. Mycroft had taken his daily rounds about the yard, searching for Redbeard.

 

“Make sure to go out and toss a ball for him when I’m not there! He needs it. I readthat animals need constant affection. If anyone deserves it, it’s Redbeard!” Sherlock would say.

 

Though today, something was wrong. He had called out at least seven times. On slow days, he’d get an answer by the fifth. Something was wrong. Without hesitation, he ran into the house, changing into more capable attire for the job in submission. And just like that, he’d went back out and began his search.

 

Their neighbourhood was a small one. It was out there in the plains. Great for dogs. Sherlock loved it. Their father loved it. But most of all, Sherlock knew Redbeard loved it.

 

Mycroft scanned that field with his eyes once before continuing onward. While also listening out for a bark or two. He wished they’d bought a dog whistle in one of their trips down to the market, but Sherlock constantly protested at that thought of that.

 

“It doesn’t quite hurt their ears, but still, why would I blare a sound in Redbeard’s ears that only he can hear? If he’s to be bothered, so shall I!” Sherlock would exclaim.

 

That memory made Mycroft far more worried. The mere fact of how much Sherlock cared for this dog was more than he could handle. What if he couldn’t find him? What if he was gone?

 

He tried hard not to dwindle in the ‘what ifs’, but at this point he was feeling lost.

 

It was then he remember something. Just as Sherlock had left for school, he hadreminded Father to take Redbeard to the vet. He had a parasite infection from being outside so much. They’d gone to the small brook in the forest a short ways a way. Though, nobody noticed it until late. Redbeard had began to lose hair.

 

They contacted a doctor over the phone, asking questions, planning appointments. While doing so, they kindly asked Sherlock to leave the room. But, not Mycroft. Perhaps, they wanted him to hear? And he heard, though he had no inclination as to what he was hearing.

 

This came to realisation over a month ago, who knows how long it’s truly been in his system.

 

The most interesting point is: Father, never went to the vet.

 

Then it finally had hit him. He knew where Redbeard was.

 

 

 

+++

 

 

The door had opened, the soft hums of Sherlock’s daily and quite cheery routine sounded. He had set down his things and made his way up to his room.

 

Why had it not occurred to him that Redbeard hadn’t run up to him like he had always done? Does he know something? Had someone told him beforehand? Would Mycroft not have to break to him?

 

All these thoughts ran through his mind as he quietly sat on the sitting room sofa. He heard Sherlock’s small footsteps slowly approaching. The anxiety had soon reached its peak.

 

Mycroft shot up from his seat, pain-stricken. Sherlock noticed something was wrong. He’d always been clever. It ran in the family.

 

“Brother, is something the matter?” Sherlock asked. He then paused before continuing, “Where’s Redbeard? Has he gone out again?”

 

Mycroft knew he had to answer quickly, Sherlock was already suspecting. He couldn’t lie, he knew that. But, it was if his throat was stuck. It was as if something was stopping him from speaking.

 

“Brother? Are you ignoring me again? There’s no reason too this time!I don’t have my kazoo anymore. Mum hid it, remember?” Sherlock pried.

 

Finally, Mycroft had broken. His patience had erupted. He knew it was now or never.

 

“Sherlock. Redbeard is…” Mycroft struggled.

 

Sherlock sighed, “Redbeard’s what, Mycroft?”

 

How was the pain in Mycroft eye’s not evident? Why couldn’t Sherlock see? He hoped and wished Sherlock, his clever little brother, could find the truth in his eyes, without him having to say anything. He hated being the one he heard it from.

 

“Redbeard is dead, Sherlock,” Mycroft glumly informed. It was at this point where Mycroft couldn’t look him in the eyes.

 

“…..What?” Sherlock asked. He couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t true. There was no way it was true. His older brother always plays dirty tricks on him. This was another.

 

“You heard me Sherlock, I’m not going to say it again,” Mycroft near whispered.

 

It wasn’t late until Sherlock began to cry. It started with a soft quiver, followed by an excessive clearing of the throat. The tears strolled down vigorously.

 

“Where is he?” Sherlock managed.

 

Mycroft took a deep breath, he couldn’t feel his lungs, “Under the sheet. In the patio.”

 

Sherlock nodded, obviously trying to keep his cool, but it wasn’t working, “H-How did he die?”

 

Mycroft did not answer.

 

“How did he die?!” Sherlock screamed, stomping his feet.

 

After another painful moment of silence, Mycroft looked up at Sherlock. His eyes were dark, as well as his expression. Sherlock looked back at him.

 

It was that moment where Mycroft’s wish came true. He had said nothing, but Sherlock had known exactly what he was trying to say.

 

“He was too ill, wasn’t he?” Sherlock asked, his tone become sharp.

 

Mycroft tensed, “Sherlock, I don’t—“

 

“No! Don’t say that! Yes you do! You knew all along!” Sherlock shouted, not noticing the rate in which he raised his volume.

 

“We didn’t have the expenses for his needed care, Sherlock. There was nothing else we could do!” Mycroft explained.

 

Sherlock scoffed, wiping his tears with the edge of his hand, “You didn’t have to kill him. We could’ve just waited.”

 

Suddenly, footsteps were heard coming towards the room. It was Father, he hada solemn expression. His eyes were soft. He had taken a seat beside Mycroft.

 

Sherlock’s anger bursted through the roof. The whole family knew. Why was everyone so insistent in forcing him to be alone? Everything anyone did caused him to be alone.

 

“Why…. Dad? Why?” Sherlock asked, the tears flowing again. More genuine now. Less anger filled. He snivelled and wiped his tears with his shirt collar.

 

“We couldn’t have waited. It was highly possible that any of us could’ve gotten infected as well. Even you, Sherlock. It had to be done. By the time I had called, the vet had informed I wait a month. We gave you a month, Sherlock. I’m truly sorry,” Father quietly said.

 

Unable to stop himself, Sherlock began to tremble. He couldn’t look anyone in the eyes. He couldn’t trust anyone. And most of all, he could not trust Mycroft. It was this moment where he decided he’d never confide in his older brother again. He ripped past them and ran outside into the shade of the patio.

 

He saw Redbeard neatly hidden under a crisp white sheet. More tears swelled up in the corners of his eyes.

 

He slowed his pace as he moved closer. Soon kneeling beside the dog, he reached to lift the sheet. Slowly, did it open. Sherlock’s hands jittered. The sight of his dog lying under a sheet. Still. Dead. A corpse. He couldn’t handle it. He dropped the corner and broke into a full sob.

 

Mycroft and Father had finally gotten up and approached him. They arrived quietly from behind. Though, Sherlock heard.

 

“Get away. Both of you. Especially you, Mycroft,” Sherlock groggily demanded.

 

Father frowned, “It’s not your brother’s fault, Sher—“

 

“Shut up! Yes it is. It’s always his fault. I hate you Mycroft!” Sherlock screamed.

 

Mycroft’s heart shattered into a million pieces. Those were the words he feared hearing. Those were the words he never wanted to come out of Sherlock’s mouth. Those were the words he first thought of when he saw the small child in his mother’s arms. His brother was the only one he had left. And he had just lost him, as Sherlock had just lost his best friend.


End file.
